O Me! O Life!

O Me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring;  

Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;  

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)  

Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;  

Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;         

Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;  

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?  

                                                        Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;  

That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

Walt Whitman

(Picture: The young poet, Gustave Moreau)